


From Necklaces and Hair Ribbons to Bow Ties and Brylcreem, or The Tale of Sherlock's Transition

by itsybitsyish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Childhood, Family, Gen, Sexuality, Trans, Trans Sherlock, Transexual, female to male
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:10:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsybitsyish/pseuds/itsybitsyish
Summary: As a little boy, Sherlock never had felt at ease having had a wardrobe consisting of frilly and lacy girlishness.He was a boy, not a girl, though nobody else seemed to realise it; at a young age, able to take no more of being expected to act like a young lady, Sherlock takes matters into his own hands and attempts to start to become the lad he's always known himself to be.How will his family handle this shock?  And, how will he handle it?  You will learn this only by clicking the title, dear reader...





	1. Chapter 1

Gender.  
It all seems to be so simple a matter at first glance; one is either born male or female, and that is that.  
Young children (and those who are naturally born into the body which suits them best) often are blissfully unaware of how complicated the topic truly is; little Christine may grow older and realise that in reality Christopher is far more suiting, or young Jimmy might learn that Jemima is truer to 'his' nature.  
Perhaps, James will realise that he feels more of a mixture of male and female, and that neither he nor she feels right and will adopt a new pronoun entirely.  
This is something that happens to many of us as we ease toward maturity, though for some it happens notably earlier than others.  
Such was the case for a certain Sherlock Holmes.

Before the age of ten, Sherlock had shorn his long, thick curls that had earned countless adoring compliments and destroyed every last shred of poisonously frilly clothing in the wardrobe.  
Dresses and skirts, frills and lace - these sorts of things had never felt comfortable, but lately it had become almost painfully insufferable.  
Those sorts of things were meant for girls, and they didn't feel comfortable; he'd never considered himself to be one, and had recently learnt after reading a few books from the library that there were many people who felt exactly as he did - that the gender which felt right and the body they'd been born with seemed rather mismatched.  
Adopting the name 'Sherlock' belonging to a character in one of his favourite pieces of old Victorian literature, he would answer to the name he had been born with nevermore.

Sherlock's parents had been utterly shocked and ill-prepared to handle such news; there had been much yelling, crying, and noises of frustration.  
The ruined clothes had been strewn about Sherlock's room as if they'd simply exploded, covering the bedspread, the floor, and even the stuffed animals which were carefully arranged on a shelf along the wall.  
The soft, brown curls lay in a messy pile near the foot of the bed; the heavy-duty kitchen scissors had been carefully placed on the bright pink duvet.  
Sherlock's mother sobbed softly into her hands, leaning against her husband who looked sternly at the mess.  
Sherlock, wearing only a pair of plain white knickers, which happened to be the least girly thing he had, was seeing his parents upset for the first time.  
He wasn't sure what to say or do, feeling a funny sort of awful lump in his throat and his slightly rounded belly began to hurt.  
His father guided his mother out of the room, closing the door behind them and leaving their youngest child to stand alone and struggling to understand why his body parts didn't correspond with how his brain felt.

His brother, Mycroft, had slipped in after their parents had left.  
'It's little wonder they're distraught...' His elder brother stated, coming over to stand beside his dumbfounded sibling. 'So, Sherlock, is it?'  
'Yes.' Sherlock responded firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.  
Mycroft gave a single nod of approval, his face more or less devoid of emotion. 'The moniker rather suits you.'  
Sherlock gave a small smile of relief, glad that at least his brother wasn't terribly angry with him.  
Of course, Mycroft had become impressively skilled at shielding his feelings that even if he were angry, Sherlock might very well not know until it was exhibited in other ways.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, refusing to show that he was mildly concerned with how their parents would choose to deal with Sherlock's sudden visual transformation. 'There are far less dramatic ways to explain things than this, you know. Mother, and especially father, are ill equipped to deal with change; introducing such important information in a drastic manner likely will not end well, Sherlock... '  
Sherlock looked down at the floor, feeling as stupid as Mycroft considered him to be.  
'I overheard most of what transpired; I completely accept you as you are, no questions asked.' Mycroft assured Sherlock, who was comforted by these loyal words. 'Now, with your commencing boarding school in a matter of weeks, I would advise you to sort out this matter before attending. Otherwise, you will find the experience of being forced to associate with other children even more of a blight for reasons other than their painfully average intelligence. Not to mention the staff... Speaking of which, you may as well not point out inaccuracies in their teachings - they merely become annoyed and you will be met with flat refusal to amend any needed corrections.'

Mycroft blew out a breath, wanting to prepare Sherlock as much as he was able to. 'I will continue working with you on taming your emotions in the meanwhile; remember what I've already taught you - clearly imagine and label each one, then put them each in turn inside of an unbreakable box, and lock them away securely. They cannot interfere with your life lest you should choose to permit them.'  
Sherlock nodded, wanting very much to please his brother.  
'I mean it, you practice that. I'll expect you to have mastered locking your emotions away by tomorrow. You've had three days to work on that already.' Mycroft continued sternly.  
'I will.' Sherlock promised, hand over his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

It was hours before Sherlock's parents had come up to his room.  
Sherlock hadn't dared leave, thinking perhaps he was grounded and not wanting to incur worse punishment.  
Mrs. Holmes sat beside Sherlock on the floor, careful not to wrinkle her pristine silk skirt.   
Mr. Holmes stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe looking angry in his silence.

Sherlock's mother rubbed his back in a circular motion. 'Whatever you're going through, honey, you can tell mummy all about it.' She cooed softly, trying to look past the short choppy haircut which made her gorgeous little girl look like some destitute ruffian boy. 'Don't worry, your lovely curls will grow back and we'll go shopping to find even better better clothes just as beautiful as you are!'  
She kissed the top of his head, smoothing down a choppy curl which was a bit longer than most of the other locks. 'And, I'll take you to the hair dressers to try and shape your hair into something a bit less... Butch.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't want that.' He said levelly, trying to keep his emotions inside that box Mycroft had told him to picture in his mind.   
So far it was working.  
His mother sputtered in confusion, as his father groaned.  
'She's gone and mentally collapsed, Helen. We should ring the doctor.' Mr. Holmes told his wife, not permitting his gaze to wander over to his child. 'We can't manage this, you know we can't. She needs help. Proper help.'

Mrs. Holmes sniffed, her eyes brimming with tears.  
She adored Sherlock, wanted the very best for him and always would; her husband may have been right - ringing the doctor and telling her to come 'round might be for the best.  
After all, what with Sherlock's first time away at boarding school coming up soon, the ballet class production early the next week, and having been recently told that he was gaining too much weight too quickly, there had been a fair amount of stress put upon the child.

Mrs. Holmes had never heard of a child suffering a nervous breakdown, but she supposed it could most certainly happen.  
And, that would explain this strange scene before her; she nodded, and Mr. Holmes left the doorway to place a call in the den.  
'I'm fine, I don't need any help.' Sherlock told his mother, wanting to quell her worries.  
She sniffed again, plastering on her best false smile. 'Of course, you are, dear.' 

His mother ran her fingers through what was left of those sweet dark curls she'd used to play with contentedly as Sherlock fell asleep.  
Mrs. Holmes choked back a sob. 'Why?' She moaned through her tears, an awful feeling coming over her as if her daughter had been snatched away from her and replaced with a cheap replica. 'What have I done as a mother to deserve this?'  
She looked into Sherlock's eyes, biting her lip. 'You know that you're a girl, don't you? You've just been playing a game with me and daddy, haven't you?' She laughed tensely, shaking her head. 'Such a silly little girl I've got!'

Sherlock shook his head.  
'Maybe this is my fault.' Mrs. Holmes realised, gesturing with her hands nervously. 'Maybe I should've taken those extra supplements when I was pregnant with you. I did with Mycroft and he's been perfectly fine... But Dr. Mendelschoen had told me that I didn't need them with you. Better than fine! ... I just - ...I don't know...'  
She wanted to stop saying such callous things, but couldn't keep the words from spewing forth.  
Which was why she had chosen to leave, joining her husband downstairs, before saying more things that she couldn't possibly take back.


	3. Chapter 3

'The sanitorium?' Mrs. Holmes asked in hushed tones, thinking it an extreme measure to take. 'I thought you'd just call the doctor and he'd come prescribe something or other.'  
Mr. Holmes' jaw set. 'You heard what that abomination told you.' He spat furiously, rubbing his carved stone crucifix which always hung about his neck in a nearly violent manner. 'As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have a daughter. Unless she comes to her senses, of course. I will not be father to an abomination!'  
Mrs. Holmes' eyes widened in shock and disbelief, feeling her entire body clenching. 'You can't mean that!'

She, too, was a Christian, but unlike her husband, she refused to purposely cast judgement on anyone.  
While this was confusing and even a touch frightening, she wasn't going to give up on her youngest. Not now, not ever.  
Mr. Holmes gave her a look which conveyed precisely what he thought of her remark, before sitting heavily down in his easy chair in a huff.  
'Oh, I mean it, all right.' He replied dryly, his brows still deeply furrowed and his ears bright red. 'The shame of it all...'  
Mrs. Holmes hadn't seen this side of her husband before, and it made her feel ill.

She'd always felt judgement was best reserved for the good Lord; Mrs. Holmes had always tried to do her best to grant respect, compassion, and kindness to all.  
Hatred, anger, and singling people out was not her way.  
And, yet, it now seemed that it might very well be her husband's, and it made her heart ache.  
'I want you to cancel the ambulance.' Mrs. Holmes told Mr. Holmes levelly, attempting to refrain from losing her temper.  
She gave him a cold stare, her gaze strong and resolute.

'Our daugher's sick, sweetheart... Don't you want her to get better?' Mr. Holmes asked, softening his tone.  
He sounded quite nearly patronising somehow.  
He needed his wife to understand what was so evil about the situation, and that if there was a chance they could have their darling girl back to normal again that they must do everything possible to manage it.  
'The doctors can help, maybe turn this whole thing around; without them, I fear for her soul.' Mr. Holmes admitted, sniffing.   
Mrs. Holmes sat beside him, taking his hand and gently enveloping it with her slightly rough hands. 'Dear, I think that perhaps when things like this happen, it may be for the best to accept it all the best we can and leave the rest up to Him; it's never been our place to judge. You know that, and I know that.' 

She sighed, seeing that stubborn side of her husband shining through in his body language.  
'Right now, our child is upstairs and likely confused, scared, and wondering why we're angry with her... Him.'   
Mr. Holmes looked disgusted, and his wife looked terribly sad.   
'Please, Fred.' She pleaded softly, her eyes brimming with tears. 'Don't send our baby away to that sort of awful place!'  
He pressed his lips together, his wife's words and emotion beginning to sway his mind.  
'Please.' She repeated, the need in her voice palpable as she begged him.  
It was then that the doorbell rang, and Mr. Holmes went to answer it without a single word.


	4. Chapter 4

'I don't want to go.' Sherlock said nervously, unable to keep his fear away. 'I want to stay home.'  
His mother pressed the flat of her hand to her chest and stifled a sob.  
'Well, you've got to.' His father replied, his voice husky and thick.  
Sherlock bit his lip, a single thought flooding his mind. 'Do you hate me?'  
Mrs. Holmes reached out for her child, her husband keeping her from taking more that a couple of steps forward. 'Honey, no! We love you so much!'  
The paramedics looked frustrated at the delay as they waited.

'Then, why don't you want me?' Sherlock asked, not understanding this at all, his heart racing as his adrenaline levels spiked.  
'You're sick, and you need special doctors - you're going to go to hospital to get well again.' His father intoned with barely veiled repulsion, struggling to look at his 'daughter'. 'We mustn't keep the nice paramedics waiting, so go with them and listen to what they tell you.'  
Mrs. Holmes wanted badly to hug Sherlock, hold his small body to hers and let him know just how much she loved him no matter what, but Mr. Holmes made sure that she stayed beside him with a firm grip on her wrist.  
'It's going to be okay, baby, I promise.' She choked out as he was lead away, hot tears stinging her eyes. 'You'll be home before you know it, and I'll visit as much as I can.'

The inside of the ambulance was cold and smelled almost too sanitised.  
The ride felt long, was boring, and the paramedic sitting next to him made him feel even less comfortable than if he'd been alone.  
After the vehicle had come to a stop, Sherlock was taken out of the ambulance - the first thing he saw was a massive and rather old building made of pale stone.  
It didn't look like a hospital.  
'Where are we?' He asked curiously, tipping his little head back and looking up at the place.  
'Saint Therese's Home for the Mentally Ill.' One of the paramedics answered, and they began walking up the flagstone steps to the wooden door.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was left in the care of a group of nuns, and a handful of doctors whose experience was geared entirely toward diseases of the mind.  
He was given a small room, which had been barren but for a single sized bed and a lamp.  
The windows were equipped with bars and did not open, and the door only opened from the outside - Sherlock provided with a metal bedpan for the purpose of holding his waste.  
It was a repulsive place, one where the very air itself seemed thick with suffering - at any given time, the screams, wails, sobbing, and other sounds could be heard.  
The smell of excrement, though usually faint, tainted the rooms.

It was the sort of place that most people would want closed immediately upon taking a brief and horrifying tour.  
And, yet, Saint Therese's Home for the Mentally Ill and many other places like it were running steadily throughout a large number of countries.  
It was a challenge for many adults to find the will to survive, with a staggering number of these patients committing suicide.  
How the children fared was nearly as bad, most of these deaths arising from the brutal 'therapies' forced upon them.

Sherlock's first night was sleepless, and it was shortly after daylight broke over the horizon that an elderly nun had come to fetch him.  
Sherlock said not a word, allowing himself to be pulled along by his left arm to a chilly white office where a short bald man sat in a squat orange chair.  
The nun had him sit down on the matching sofa across from the bald man, who introduced himself as 'Dr. Smith'.  
The doctor asked him all sorts of questions, scrawling out notes written in thick black ink onto a smallish notepad in his hand.

It was an hour and a half later when Sherlock was taken back to his cell, supervised as he was meant to swallow the large greyish tablet he'd been passed in a paper cup.  
The nun gave him a little paper cup of lukewarm water.  
Sherlock felt scared again, knowing that he wasn't sick and therefore needed no medication.  
'No, thank you.' Sherlock told her after he'd plucked up his courage.  
The nun raised an eyebrow. 'You have to take your medicine; if you don't, I'll have to come back with a needle and give it to you that way.'  
Sherlock wanted so very much to be home again, where he felt safe and content.  
He said nothing, his silence a stand against all which now stood against him - even if he were to lose this battle, he wasn't about to simply admit defeat.  
Sherlock would rail against his captors, knowing full well that this was not a place in which he belonged.  
'Fine, have it your way, brat.' The nun stated sharply, turning on her heel and shutting the automatically locking metal door behind her as she left.


	6. Chapter 6

The first few days had been a literal nightmare; the medication he'd had injected twice daily had kept him in a state of near constant sleep in which horrifyingly realistic terrors had plagued him.  
This was all meant to 'relax' his mind, to allow him rest before the real treatment began.  
The doctors had all agreed that with his particular 'disease of the brain' that electro-shock therapy was a definite possible 'cure'.  
Sherlock had been taken into a small room, strapped onto a padded bed, and had a rubber paddle inserted into his mouth.  
He'd been terrified - none of this had been explained to him, no words of comfort given, no hint of compassion.  
Instead, they seemed to treat him as some sort of experiment.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt such an intense jolt of white hot pain shoot through his entire body that he thought that he must be dying.  
The agony continued for what seemed like an eternity, and Sherlock wished that he would die if only to stop feeling this pain.  
And, then, it stopped.

A man's bearded face gazed down at him in a bored sort of way. 'Another level, nurse.'  
Sherlock felt a scream rip out of his throat, feeling all of his muscles tense crushingly.  
Why they were committing such a cruel act against him, Sherlock didn't know.  
He was only a little boy, and yet they were torturing him as if he'd been the perpetrator of some heinous crime.  
Sherlock was unable to beg them to stop, unable to even think as a third even stronger electric current ran through his body.  
By the end, he was no longer conscious as he was rolled back to his cell on a stretcher.


	7. Chapter 7

Soon after Sherlock had awakened, he noticed the same bearded doctor from earlier and felt sick to his stomach.  
What were they going to do to him now?  
'Good afternoon, young lady... And, how are we feeling now?' He asked in his thick Welsh accent, standing at the end of the rickety steel bed, smiling a transparently false smile that made Sherlock's body tense.  
Sherlock maintained his silence, closed his eyes, and did what he could to close himself off from all emotion; no fear, no anger, not a trace of anything that could make the situation any worse.  
He would rail against all of this the best he could, but to fight to the best of his abilities he knew that he would have to make strong use of Mycroft's teachings.  
The doctor tutted, and Sherlock heard the sound of a pen scribbling a line or two in a notebook.  
Not that he cared what words might have been written.  
It was evident that the truth wasn't going to help him here, but he had always been a good boy and told the truth as he'd been taught; Sherlock detested lies, and wouldn't allow these vile people to transform him into a liar.

'You're feeling a bit icky after your treatment earlier, yes?' Doctor Brannigan inquired mildly, waiting for an answer that didn't come as Sherlock pointedly ignored him.  
'Right, well, I can see you aren't going to make this easy for us... I hope that you will change your mind.' The doctor started, shoving his hands into the pockets of his white trousers. 'The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can help you and you can go home.'  
A few moments later, Sherlock heard the door open and the shut again, the click of the lock echoing unpleasantly.

 

A few hours later, a young woman of perhaps twenty came into his room carrying a tray.  
She didn't speak a word, setting it down on the small nightstand, giving him a gentle smile before leaving.  
The odour of stale oatmeal mixed with tomatoes and black pepper filled the room, making Sherlock's tummy churn.  
He pulled the thin blanket up and over his head, endeavouring to block the smell.  
It worked, though not well.  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, homesickness and the trauma from what had happened clutching him tightly - he could no longer keep it all at bay and he began to softly cry.  
He rolled onto his side and curled up into a ball, as hot tears dripped down his face and onto the bed.  
The quiet cries turned into painful, wracking sobs that shook his small frame.  
Nobody came to check in on him if they heard anything at all.  
Sherlock's throat and lungs ached as he cried himself to sleep, falling into a string of terrifying nightmares,each one worse than the other.


	8. Chapter 8

As the days went by slowly, Sherlock was subjected to schedule of numerous 'therapies' designed to 'fix' him - some of them were plain ridiculous, others were humiliating, and still more were awfully upsetting.  
All of them were painful on some level, either physically or mentally.  
Within a fortnight of this torture, Sherlock felt certain that he would die there.  
How could anyone continue to live being subjected to such inhumanity for long?

These doctors, these nurses, they were doing their very best to chip away at him to turn him into something that he was not.  
Sherlock was expected to wear only dresses and girls shoes, to style his hair into the most feminine style that could be managed, and even wear makeup. And, he was to answer to the name he'd been born with.

At first, Sherlock chose to be naked rather than wear the clothes left for him, let his hair go as messy as it would go, and didn't touch the makeup.  
They had verbally reprimanded him, confident that the next day they would be obliged.  
Instead, they found the clothing, makeup, and hairbrush near the door - drenched in urine.  
Of course, Sherlock was punished; for an entire week, he was left entirely alone in a room with no windows and only a weak overhead light.  
Meals were shoved unceremoniously through a slat at the bottom of the door.  
This was nearly as bad as the treatments Sherlock had been subjected to.  
He endured lengthy sessions of having it drilled into his head who he was supposed to be, and then questioned to see whether Sherlock was 'improving' - Sherlock refused to give them the satisfaction of receiving any answers that they wanted.

His health was taking a bad turn - his strength was waning, his appetite non-existent, and his will to keep fighting was ebbing though he yet struggled.  
Sherlock was so young, too young to suffer such brutality.  
Not that age would really help anybody to endure it.

Months went by, and Sherlock had been in and out of the infirmary - dehydration and starvation from the inability to keep anything down had left him dangerously underweight and close to death thrice during his stay in that horrid place, and he had suffered a few infections as well.  
Sherlock's parents had finally visited him eight and a half months later.  
He had been certain that he'd never see his family again, having been abandoned to grow up in these harsh circumstances.

The truth was that Mr. Holmes had strictly forbidden any visitation, thinking it would only hinder any progress made.  
Not that there had been any, not from what the doctors had told them.  
But, Mrs. Holmes had suffered without her child; she had no idea what was happening in the hospital but her heart ached - if she had another son instead, so be it, it wasn't the end of the world.  
She might not understand, but if her little girl felt like a boy in her heart and mind, then she had a son.  
Mrs. Holmes had become accustomed to the name Sherlock, to the idea that she would no longer be buying dresses and skirts or any of those pretty sorts of things.  
Sherlock knew himself better than anyone, and was only doing what was right for him.  
She had tried desperately to persuade her husband to bring their young one back home to no avail.  
And, as Sherlock would only be released if both the mother and father's signatures were written on the final forms.  
But, after countless requests to visit, Mr. Holmes relented at last.


	9. Chapter 9

'Oh, my goodness!' A shocked Mrs. Holmes gasped after clapping eyes on her son, who had been brought to the visitation room.  
His skin had a grey pallor to it, and there were dark rings around his eyes.  
Sherlock's cheeks had been boyishly full when he'd left, but were now hollow, his cheekbones prominent.  
Mrs. Holmes rushed over to her son, scooping him up in her arms.  
She turned sharply on her heel, glaring fiercely at the nurse who had brought him before looking at her husband with that same hot gaze. 'We will be leaving now.'  
As the nurse garbled in surprise, Mrs. Holmes began to leave, her husband calling after her to stop.  
'The doctors say she's not ready to leave, yet.' He stated firmly, his tone not one of any sympathy or regret.

Mrs. Holmes did stop, but only for a few moments to look back at her husband.  
'I never want to see you again, Henry.' She all but snarled protectively, holding Sherlock a bit too tightly in her rage. 'If you come near me or the boys again, I'll ring the police sooner than you can blink; that might be a good thing for you, you may need their protection if you dare set foot in our direction. I'll have the divorce papers sent to your mothers, and you will sign them so help me.'  
'The release papers need to be signed by you and your husband, until then the girl is legally our ward.' The nurse said.  
'Get the release forms.' Mrs. Holmes demanded lowly, her motherly instincts taking complete control as she fought to keep herself from doing or saying anything which would end up having her arrested.   
She squinted at her husband. 'May God have mercy on your soul, Henry...' She told him, steely hate in her blue eyes.  
Mr. Holmes swallowed, a sharp lump making itself felt.  
He had never been afraid of his wife in all the time he'd known her, but it was unmistakable fear which he was now feeling rather poignantly.  
He nodded, and the shaken nurse dashed off to retrieve the papers, the soles of her shoes clicking as she went.


	10. Chapter 10

It had taken some time for Sherlock to recuperate as much as he would; his mother, guiltridden and worried, had tried to help her son to be happy and carefree as he'd been before...   
Mycroft, having already trained himself to automatically blanket emotion as it cropped up found it difficult to empathise, but had been brotherly in his way - never having had much good at the more intimate and kindly bits of brotherhood, he had worked on assisting Sherlock even further in becoming less vulnerable.  
This had brought the siblings closer together, and they had even begun playing games together; this was how childhood memories of honing their skills via rounds of 'Deductions' and 'Secrets' had come about.  
Sherlock had surprised his brother as time went on, proving that he wasn't quite as intellectually compromised as Mycroft had first supposed.

Sherlock's relationship with his mother was never the same, finding himself unable to fully trust her.  
His father, the man nearly completely at blame for all that he had undergone, for all of the agony which would always leave a trace whispering at the very back of his mind.  
This wasn't the only relationship which had suffered; the few children who had played with Sherlock enough to be considered mild friends were now of no interest to Sherlock.  
He had given up on other people altogether, albeit his elder brother - he had convinced himself with ease that he wasn't lonely, that he didn't need those others. He was fine.

And, just as he had said before having been swept off to that monstrous hospital, he was a boy - nothing would ever change that, and he would never go back to living as a girl again.


	11. Chapter 11

Mr. Holmes had left most of his things behind, having come rather late at night to pack a single suitcase and leave, all without uttering a word to the family he intended to forget altogether.  
He died within a few years of undiagnosed tuberculosis, maintaining his complete silence against the children and his wife.  
Not that it would have gone well had Mr. Holmes had wanted to reconnect, remaining unforgiven.

Mrs. Holmes had striven to provide a stable, happy, and loving home on her own for her boys.  
Sherlock was allowed to wear whatever he might want, decorate his room as he liked, and have the freedom to be himself without the slightest worry of repercussions.  
His mother had made it a point to arrange a meeting with the headmaster of Sherlock's school, as well as the teachers that he would be assigned; there was no way that she was about to let her youngest son facing the brunt of the issue that was his birth gender.  
Mrs. Holmes was careful to ensure full clarity when it came to Sherlock's situation - he was a boy, and they were to treat him as such, and to keep this important information to themselves lest she sue them for everything she could.  
If the other pupils possessed the facts, then Sherlock's school life would be miserable, she just knew it.

Sherlock managed his way through all of his schooling, though the boredom was excruciating; how he was meant to learn anything of import when the teachers' skill and intellect were severely limited felt more like a bad joke than anything else.

One of Sherlock's numerous complaints regarding each school system was that much of what was taught was of pitifully little use - what did it matter that the sun went round the moon, that dinosaurs once existed, or whether it was presumed that in the future humans might colonise another planet?  
Still, Sherlock suffered it the best he could; he wiled away the majority of his free time digesting a plethora of advanced knowledge that was useful and practical - the sort of information that provided ample insight to the world of medicine, criminology, psychology, and many other fascinating things.  
It was far better than anything in the pitiful curriculum provided by every last school that he attended.  
To his relief, he proved himself and was able to graduate university four years earlier than most people do.

It was shortly after graduation that he had run into a spot of potentially serious trouble; Sherlock's flatmate had gone into his room to borrow some cologne from the top drawer in his bureau where he kept his razor, shaving cream, and cologne along with a few other bits and pieces.  
But, his flatmate hadn't found just these things, but Sherlock's stash of heroin as well.  
Sherlock had been ejected from his room as a result.  
The police hadn't been called, though even if they had Sherlock would almost certainly been able to find a way out of it - that was Sherlock, always able to discern precisely how to work situations to his best advantage.

His skills in manipulation were beyond measure, and had he not disliked his flatmate as much as he had, then he'd have found a way to worm his way back into Steve's good graces.  
Instead, he looked for another place, finding a new one soon enough.  
But, as with most people, his new flatmates weren't fond of him.  
Sherlock wasn't about to put on an act most of the time, why should he?  
Of course, this made his life difficult, and he'd found himself in need of a better job to pay the rent.  
Sherlock had never been keen on selling his life away doing menial tasks for a pittance; if he was going to work, then it ought to be something that proved a challenge.  
Therefore, he decided to create a job for himself.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock Holmes became the world's only consulting detective, finding himself providing support to the local police force due to his impressive knack for tracking the guilty down.

This was where he had met Constable Lestrade, who would become Detective Inspector Lestrade in later years.  
Where he had met Molly Hooper, the slightly awkward mortician who had developed a crush soon after meeting him.  
Not that Sherlock was there to do anything but his job - he had done well enough without anyone else, just as Mycroft had taught him, and it was irrational to waste time on frivolous things such as friendship when there were far more pressing matters to attend to.  
Work was utmost on his mind, and Sherlock took on as much as he could.  
He thrived as cases came pouring in, until he began having to turn potential clients away.  
After becoming established in his specialty service, Sherlock became more choosy about which cases he took on - Sherlock no longer accepted the mundane, the easy, or the tedious.  
Interesting cases were what he was after.  
And, they came along sooner or later.

 

Sherlock Holmes became the man he wanted to be; it was not an easy road, but he had put all of his effort into being true to himself.  
There had been times when he saw that look on his mother's face when she remembered him as a little girl, imagining how her son would have been had he remained a daughter instead.  
It wasn't that his mum regretted the gender of her youngest, only that perhaps she mourned the loss of a daughter as she was proud of her son. A complicated situation for a parent to find oneself in, to be certain.   
Sherlock had struggled with the idea of surgery for quite a long time; weighing the positives against the negatives, diving into countless factual articles on the subject and researching all that he could, letting the critical information of the entire matter wash over his grey matter until he came to a decision.  
After all of this, Sherlock did choose to undergo surgery strictly above the waist.

The current situation when it came to creating artificial male genitalia was not what Sherlock wanted, which was terribly disappointing; with the current advancement in science and medicine it was entirely possible to recreate the penis for such procedures - it wasn't as if the demand weren't there, and the fact that this area of surgery was so stunted appalled Sherlock.  
Still, at twenty-two, Sherlock had his surgery done after five years of hormone therapy and countless infuriating trips to a mental therapist to show that he was stable enough and sure enough to go through with it.  
It was needless, invasive, and an incredulous waste of time; unfortunately suffering these appointments happened to be the only way that he was able to have the surgery approved.

 

So, he did and said what he could tell was needed in order to get his way.

It took far too long a time, but after the surgery Sherlock was immeasurably more comfortable in his body.  
He loved his body, though he didn't feel complete downstairs - he wore a convincing appendage beneath his silky purple drawers.  
Of course, the rubber strap-on was nowhere near the same as having a real one; Sherlock accepted this, and made his peace.

Sherlock Holmes was who he was, and required nor asked approval from anyone.

 

As a boy, he came near enough to death as a result of refusing to give in to those at the monstrous hospital bent on 'curing' him, but survived that and much more in order to become the man he transformed into and is today.  
Sherlock Holmes became the man which he needed to be, but he knew well that masses of others weren't nearly so fortunate.

Many perished at places such as that hospital at the hands of doctors or nurses during treatment, others committed suicide from cruel mistreatment, the inability to cope with being anything other than straight,or from the shame that they felt.  
Still others were murdered, victims of the violent ignoramuses and bigots that roam dangerously.

The risks there were, are, and will be for those so-called 'unnatural' people who simply want to live their lives in peace are great; too much death, too much suffering come to those outside the scope of heterosexuality, and Sherlock was no exception - he had faced some dangerous circumstances during his time after healing from surgery; he had been cocky and open about his sexuality for the first time, feeling happier than ever he had been.  
Sherlock felt invincible, and acted the part.

Until, he'd ended up in the hospital a few times as a result of being heavily dosed on different drugs and coming up against some nasties - it had made Sherlock realise how vulnerable it made him to be so outwardly free.   
Of course, he'd known this already, though he'd been high on the happiness of becoming more physically like he felt inside; it was a heady, giddy sort of sensation which was rather difficult to contain.  
But, he reigned himself in, and became more reserved and sombre in personality.

Sherlock knew that to be alive, let alone having the luxury of being able to have gender reshaping surgeries, and having a supportive and caring family, were all things to be entirely grateful for.  
And, he was.

His life, though it had most certainly had thus far had been a painful and rough here and there, was something that Sherlock was entirely grateful for; something that he had very nearly hadn't been able to experience.

And, nobody would ever take away who he was. Not ever.


End file.
